How Sherlock Got His Coat Back
by Lucky Dice Kirby
Summary: There are many strange things about Sherlock Holmes. John is beginning to find out that his coat is the least of them. ‹sherlockjohn, the marquis de carabas, irene adler›


At this point in their acquaintance, John Watson is well aware that there are many strange things about Sherlock Holmes. He's started to think about keeping a list. Not on paper or on his laptop, because then Sherlock would find it and give John a lecture on how none of it is strange at all, _really_ John, must you be so pedestrian? And he'd rather avoid that, thanks all the same.

Keeping it in his head isn't going to help all that much, probably, but John likes to pretend he still has a little bit of privacy.

The List, which John has decided deserves capital letters, is as follows:

- Sherlock does not understand the proper use of fridges (e.g., not for body parts of human origin).  
>- Sherlock is occasionally an insensitive prick.<br>- Sherlock never seems to be bothered by the cold, no matter how frigid his skin is.  
>- Sherlock sleeps about half as much as he should.<br>- Sherlock eats about a third as much as he should (excluding tea and biscuits), and only ever when forced to.  
>- Sherlock has more arch-enemies than friends.<br>- Sherlock seems entirely too comfortable with leaving the flat in shambles (e.g, that one time with the rats).  
>- Sherlock has an almost pathological attachment to his coat.<p>

It's the last one that's been bothering John, lately. Sherlock doesn't wear his coat all the time, of course- but he always knows where it is, and takes care to actually hang it up, which is more care than he shows any of his other possessions.

There's also the matter of the myriad things to be found in the coat's pockets. John has witnessed firsthand that Sherlock, apparently, comes prepared for any possible situation, and always has appropriate medical supplies on hand. Even when the goal of the evening had been an actual dinner, for once, as opposed to violence. He also becomes quite irritated when he's caught in a tricky situation _without_ it.

For example. After they both almost die in a swimming pool, John wakes up to the steady beat of a heart monitor and Sherlock's erratic mutterings about smoke bombs and distractions and bloody carelessness.

Once he gets around to opening his eyes, he can see quite plainly that Sherlock has not left the hospital since John has been under, however long that turns out to have been. Upon this realization, he has bigger things to worry about than Sherlock's choice in outerwear.

"You idiot," comes out much more hoarse and much more affectionate than John meant it to, but at least it gets Sherlock's attention. His eyes are bright despite his haggard appearance.

"John," Sherlock says, ceasing his muttering immediately, and he looks at him as if there were nothing more interesting in the world. John wonders what that kind of look means coming from Sherlock Holmes.

-

John forgets completely about the coat and its various oddities after he's released. That is, until about a week later, when they get home at two in the morning, breathless from running about London and catching an arsonist. Sherlock's first words upon climbing the stairs and giving the room a quick once-over are, "My coat."

John had been thinking about what constituted a home, and how long he had been thinking of 221B that way, and how it was that someplace where you sometimes found fingers in the fridge could still be your home, and why _that_ was, exactly. "Yes, what about it?" he asks, happy enough to think about something else.

"It isn't here," Sherlock says, running a hand through his hair and pacing quickly about the flat. John takes the opportunity to settle down on the sofa. When Sherlock returns, he says, voice clipped, "John, we have a case." He seems uncharacteristically sober about it.

John, proving his continued and unrelenting insanity, does not point out that he's tired, that it's two in the bloody morning, that he's still barely out of hospital, or mention the cup of tea he'd been planning to have. Instead, he gets up, and follows Sherlock back out the door.

-

It's freezing out here. Sherlock wouldn't borrow one of John's coats when he offered (it would be too short in the arms but at least it would be_warm_). John can't even see Sherlock's breath, which is ridiculous, because his own is coming out in white puffs.

John isn't quite sure where they are, which is also ridiculous, because he knows London well. The street Sherlock's led them to shouldn't be unfamiliar, and yet John would not have been able to recall its existence until a moment ago.

Rather than dwelling on that curiosity, John instead tries to parse the words coming out of Sherlock's mouth. His hands are pressed together under his chin, and his head is tipped back. He still doesn't trip. "This is exactly what I was trying to avoid," Sherlock says, talking to the sky.

"And what's that, then? You've yet to get around to explaining yourself," John points out.

"I've been robbed, John," Sherlock says, just managing not to sound completely overdramatic, although it's a near thing. "My coat. I didn't take it with me to the swimming pool on purpose, I didn't want Moriarty to know I had it. Seems I was too late on that account. He must have had it taken while we were otherwise occupied."

_Occupied_, John thinks. He's not sure he'd call being kidnapped _occupied_. "It's just a coat, Sherlock," John says. Sherlock does seem to be unusually preoccupied with it, yes, and he has a knack for keeping useful things in it, but it isn't as if he can't just buy another one. Mycroft already gets enough of Sherlock's purchases billed to his account, it's unlikely he'd mind something that at least had practical value.

Sherlock shoots him a look, which is either pity or exasperation, or an uncomfortable mix of both. "It is not _just_ anything, John." Sherlock says.

"Don't you think we should call Lestrade, if Moriarty's been in our flat?" John asks. The idea is unsettling.

"No need. He won't be back," Sherlock says, waving a hand in dismissal.

"You know, the last time Moriarty was involved, you seemed much more cheerful."

"That was a game. This isn't. He hasn't left any obvious clues to his whereabouts, and he hasn't tried to contact me. He stole it because he wanted it, because he knows that I need it." Before John can ask, again, what is so bloody important about a coat, Sherlock stops short next to an alley that John's eyes would have slid right over, if Sherlock wasn't walking right into it. "Come along."

John follows him, wondering what sort of unsavory criminal contact they're going to be dealing with this time. As long as it doesn't involve spray paint, he supposes he can live with it.

There isn't any spray paint, but the alley's empty, save for a few piles of rubbish strewn about.

"Why must he always be so difficult," Sherlock says. John tries his best not to choke on the sheer irony. "Never the same place twice, and I've better things to do than tramp about London looking for him." It's clear that Sherlock isn't talking to John anymore, although he's not quite sure whom he is talking to, if not him. "And better things to do than spin about. You and I are the same, you know, and I shan't be subjected to your theatrics." With that, he aims a sharp kick at one of the piles of rubbish. Which turns out to not be rubbish at all, to John's great surprise. Instead, a man springs up, clad in a large, dusty black coat.

The man brushes off his front, before carefully inspecting his nails. "Now, now. Violence at this juncture is entirely unnecessary, Mr. Holmes."

"And yet it is entirely too much fun," Sherlock says.

John, for his part, does quite a lot of staring, most of it at the man in the coat. After a few moments of being subjected to this, he looks up. After giving John a once-over, he begins pacing the alley. "You shouldn't have brought him here," he says to Sherlock, idly, as if it doesn't matter to him in the slightest. "You know what will happen."

"He's shown a remarkably firm grip on reality in the past," Sherlock says, folding his arms over his chest. "I trust my own judgment in these matters, not that of strays on the street." He sneers. The man, still on the move, coat flapping behind him, doesn't appear to notice, nor care.

"_He_ is also standing right here, thank you very much," John says, annoyed. He's been dragged out here for what, at the moment, appears to be no reason, and he is not in the mood to be ignored.

This only succeeds in making the man look amused. "Ah, how terribly rude of me. The marquis de Carabas," he says, with a sweeping bow.

The name is vaguely familiar, although nothing else about the man is. It reminds John of his French classes in school, but he can't recall any of the specifics. It's probably nothing, he figures.

John opens his mouth to give his own name in return, but is stopped from doing so by Sherlock's cold hand covering his mouth. Damn him and his casual disregard for personal space. And self-preservation, for that matter. If he's this cold, he really ought to be wearing gloves. And then John wouldn't be fighting the urge to lick his hand. Out of spite, of course.

"Don't give him your name, or tell him any identifying information about yourself," says Sherlock. "Trust me on this." John pushes his hand away and glares at the both of them.

The marquis watches this all with roaming eyes. "You shouldn't have brought him," he concludes, "and you're quite aware of that. So why did you?"

"Figure it out," says Sherlock, sharply. "Can we get down to business? I can assure you that this is not a social visit, marquis."

At this point, John has resigned himself to being nothing more than a spectator in this little drama.

The marquis raises an eyebrow. "As you wish. Now. What is it that you want? We owe one another nothing, although I'm beginning to get the feeling that will soon change," he says, grinning widely. His teeth are very white.

"You know of Moriarty, I presume."

The marquis lets out a huff, and begins pacing again. "To my great dismay, yes. It's rather difficult not to."

"And I'm sure you've heard of all the trouble he's been causing me."

"He almost killed you. Yes, I'm quite aware."

Sherlock looks affronted. "Hardly. He didn't even come close. I'm perfectly intact, as you can see. Except for my coat, which has conspicuously gone missing from my flat not a week after he tried to get rid of me. It's not a particularly difficult connection to make."

"So Moriarty stole your coat. Why, precisely, is this my problem?" The marquis inspects his nails with a false air of nonchalance.

"I want your help in tracking it, and him, down." Sherlock's eyes are like ice. "Your help in eliminating him will be entirely unnecessary, however."

"And what will I be receiving in compensation for all this?" the marquis asks, looking up.

Sherlock pulls a small, ornate box from his pocket, and lays it flat on the palm of his hand. He opens it, just a little. John, unable to help himself, peers inside to see what's made the marquis go ashen under his dark skin. As far as he can tell, it's an egg, and nothing more.

"Where did you get that?" de Carabas asks, no longer bothering to feign disinterest.

"Oh, don't look so scandalized. You know perfectly well where I got it, don't pretend you don't, ignorance doesn't suit you. She gave it to me of her own free will, I didn't _steal_ it. I'm a genius, why does everyone seem to forget that? I wouldn't steal something like this."

"You're also utterly insufferable and unlikable in every way," the marquis says, flatly. "And yet you've managed to charm something of unspeakable value from a woman of unspeakable beauty. How in the world did you manage that? Do tell."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and tucks the box back into his pocket. "You're making it sound so distasteful. It was a going-away present, if you must know. I would have returned it, but she slipped it in my coat, and I didn't find it until I was gone. I didn't see the point in going back, so I kept it. A wise decision, as I've no desire to owe you any favours."

"Nor I you," the marquis says. "And this is worth more than tracking down a measly coat. Am I to owe you the difference?"

"I haven't finished," says Sherlock. "I also want protection. Not for me," he adds, at the marquis's raised eyebrow. "For him." He nods at John.

"What?" John splutters, looking between the both of them. "I can take care of myself, thanks all the same. I'm the one with the gun."

"Yes, because that's been working fantastically," Sherlock says.

"Oh, right, sorry, I forgot for two seconds that I'm living with a madman who contacts serial killers and sets up meetings out of some insane concept of _boredom_, and that therefore I need to carry my gun with me at all hours, even when I'm on the way to a date," John says hotly, briefly wondering what the marquis is going to make of all this, and then deciding that he doesn't give a damn. He is, in fact, following the exchange and grinning like a cat, but he makes no move to say anything.

"I'm trying to keep you safe. What is it with you- you _people_ and your silly concept of pride? You need protection and I am attempting to procure it for you."

"I'm the one with an absurd concept of pride?"

"If I may intrude," the marquis says, intrudingly. "I haven't got all day, you know. I accept your terms. Have we got a deal?"

"No," John spits. Sherlock ignores him, and hands the box to the marquis, who pockets it with a very satisfied smirk.

"Lovely," he says. "The next Floating Market begins tomorrow, at midday. Meet me there. I will doubtlessly have some information by then, and we will be in need of some assistance. We should be able to find it there." And with that, he turns on his heel and is gone.

John refuses to speak to Sherlock the entire walk home. He feels somewhat like a petulant child, but Sherlock acts that way often enough that John doesn't feel at all guilty.

"You're angry with me," Sherlock says, once they're reached the front steps of their flat.

"Fantastic deduction," John replies, keeping his eyes pointed straight ahead.

"I don't understand," Sherlock says, and John can't help but look at him, not when he sounds so lost. "What have I done wrong? I'm only trying to protect you."

It's very tempting to just say, _I wouldn't need protection, if it weren't for you,_ but he doesn't. John chose this life for himself. It's not fair to blame it all on Sherlock, not when John would have, if he were at all sane, left after the first time he needed to shoot someone.

"It would be easier to protect me if you ever actually told me anything," he says instead.

"I tell you all sorts of things," Sherlock points out.

"I mean about what you're doing, about what sort of danger I might be in. If you had mentioned to me before I went out that you were planning on confronting a known serial killer, I might have taken a few extra precautions."

"Liar," Sherlock says. "You would have stopped me."

"Yeah, I would've," John concedes. "And I would've been right. You didn't catch him, and we both ended up in hospital. Not exactly a win, was it?"

Sherlock glares at him. "There were unforeseeable circumstances," he says.

John sighs. "Look, Sherlock. You can get me a bodyguard, or whatever it is you're trying to do. But you have to explain to me what the hell is going on, and if you think I might be in danger, you have to let me know, alright? That's the deal."

"Fine," Sherlock says brusquely. "But John, you must understand, I can't tell you everything."

"Why not?" John demands.

Sherlock just shakes his head. "It's late," he says. John wants to tell him that stating the obvious isn't a great avoidance tactic coming from him, but it is late, and he's tired, so he follows Sherlock up the steps.

-

John still hasn't started back at the clinic, and he was planning to go with Sherlock to this Floating Market, whatever in the world it is. He's still expecting it to be something at least vaguely criminal. Mostly, he's just hoping to get some answers. But when he wakes up, Sherlock is nowhere to be found. When nothing turns up from questioning Mrs. Hudson, he goes out to look for him.

Once he's on the street, it occurs to him that there's no way he can find Sherlock without help. He could call Mycroft, but that seems like the sort of thing that should be saved for emergencies. And besides, spending any amount of time in Mycroft's presence will probably just raise more questions, and John's already got enough of those.

He pays a homeless man twenty quid and asks him if he knows where Sherlock is. When he shakes his head, he asks him if he knows where the Floating Market is, because while he could just ask for the man to find out Sherlock's whereabouts and let John know, that would take more time than John really has. It's almost noon already.

The man looks him up and down, and then gestures for John to follow him.

-

John doesn't have any idea where he is, except that it appears to be a church, and he's also a bit fuzzy on how he got here. The fact that he walked here with his own two feet isn't especially helpful, because those same feet are also telling him he got here by walking through the sewer. A _sewer_. What sort of church has sewer access? But John doesn't really have any choice but to believe it. The smell stuck to his shoes is convincing enough.

He's going to make Sherlock buy him new shoes after this, he thinks. Sherlock never agrees to do shopping unless he's using it as a cover for the fact that he's trying to get himself killed, but maybe shoes would be different. He certainly dresses sharply enough. It's interesting, because in other ways Sherlock cares so little what people think of him, but he's always impeccably dressed. It's a bit ridiculous, and is it strange to dwell on how your flatmate dresses? John thinks that maybe it is. He'd better focus on finding Sherlock, anyway, because the homeless man disappeared immediately after leading John here, and now he's got no idea what to do.

He really hopes that he finds Sherlock, because he's not sure he'll be able to find his way back, otherwise.

John settles for wandering around and looking for anything that makes him think of Sherlock, or for anything that reminds him of what Sherlock and the marquis talked about. The latter is rather doubtful, since over half of that conversation hadn't made any sense to him at all.

This course of action leaves his looking around dumbfounded. The surroundings do look vaguely familiar. That's the only thing that does, however. Oddly dressed people are bustling around like they know exactly where they are and what they're doing. It does appear to be a market of some sort, and most of the stalls do look at least vaguely criminal, so he was probably right on that count. But John has no idea what caused all these people to gather here. What holds them together, except for perhaps their collective strangeness. Sherlock must feel right at home, John muses. He himself does not, because people keep giving him these looks, sidelong, like they know he doesn't belong here.

After perhaps a half hour of walking with absolutely nothing to show for it, something does catch John's eye. It's nothing to do with Sherlock, and more to do with the extraordinary beauty of the woman behind the stall. Her hair is black and glossy, and her eyes glitter like jewels. His search so far hasn't come up with anything, so he figures that he's got nothing to lose by talking to her.

It's not exactly a sound train of thought, especially because women haven't really been catching his eye, ever since the utter failure of his relationship with Sarah. John doesn't bother to dwell on it, though, and goes to talk to her anyway. "Hello," he says, giving her a pleasant smile, which she returns, although hers is infinitely more beautiful.

The woman inclines her head towards him. "Hello," she says. "Can I interest you in anything?"

"Well," John says, "what are you offering?" He hopes that didn't sound as suggestive as it did to him, after he'd said it. It's a valid question. He doesn't see anything laid out at the stall or behind it.

"That depends," she says, smiling sweetly. "What are you willing to pay? I'm told that I'm a fair singer, if that's what you're interested in." Her eyes practically sparkle.

John opens his mouth to reply, but is interrupted by a smooth voice.

"Now," says the marquis de Carabas, "what's this?"

"Hello, de Carabas," the woman says, and then she looks behind him. Her smile widens. "Ah, Sherlock. I've been waiting for you."

Sherlock, coming to stand beside John, rolls his eyes. "Miss Adler. I thought we'd had this discussion already. Years ago."

"The one about not touching your things, I presume," says the woman, which makes Sherlock glare at her, and decidedly does not make John blush. They're not talking about _him_, surely?

"Don't be so dull," Sherlock says, with more bite than his barbs usually carry. "And have you really stooped so low as to charm innocent Upworlders?"

"He looked interesting," she says. "And anyway, that's more your area, isn't it?"

"If we could actually go about doing some business," the marquis interjects. "It seems that we are in need of your assistance, Miss Adler." He leans in to her, conspiratorially.

She sighs, but in such a way that her smile doesn't falter. "It's been years, de Carabas. I was sure you would have forgotten."

The marquis grins, all teeth. "I never forget a favour owed. And I can assure you, there will be no swindling your way out of this one."

"So I see," she says. "What's going on? It must be important, for Sherlock to have come back," and there's a weight to her words that John can't quite understand. He wonders what happened between these two. After a glance at Sherlock, it becomes clear that he won't be hearing the story from him.

"I told you," Sherlock says to the marquis, "we don't need her help."

The marquis raises an eyebrow at him. "Still petulant as ever, I see. We need her, and as you are the one who has employed my services, I think it's best that you defer to me in this matter."

The woman leans in with interest. "How's Sherlock paying you, then? He hates owing anyone anything." This is said to the marquis, but then she turns to John. "That's why I annoy him so much," she tells him, as if he is an old friend. "He owes me his life, you know."

"Don't be so melodramatic," Sherlock snaps. "I despise you because you are infuriating, and I don't owe you my _life_. Just my current living situation, which is what I am trying to preserve. Moriarty has stolen my coat, and I'm sure you don't want to have to deal with him down here, do you?"

"You got my coat stolen?" she asks, affronted. "Honestly, Sherlock. You need to be more careful."

"It's _mine,_" Sherlock says. "Just because you made it does not make it yours. Don't try to play games with me, Miss Adler, I'm busy."

"It's not yours, now, it's his. That's the whole problem, isn't it? If it's not yours, then it won't work."

"Yes, obviously," says Sherlock. "And I wonder how he found out what it does? Who could have possibly told him, Miss Adler?" He gives her a scathing look.

"Call me Irene," she tells Sherlock, unconcerned. "And you can't fault me for that. It's common knowledge down here, anyone could have told him." Sherlock continues to glare at her. "You still didn't tell me how he's paying," Irene says, turning to the marquis.

"With a gift of yours," de Carabas says.

"You gave him my egg," says Irene accusingly. "That was for you, Sherlock."

"I had no need of it," Sherlock says. "And I never asked for it, either."

"That's what makes it a gift," she points out.

"I would have returned it, but I was in a hurry to leave."

"He means that he wouldn't have been able to find me," she says to John, in a stage whisper.

Sherlock ignores that. "This is entirely your fault," he says. "You have no reason to be chastising me."

"Please. It isn't in any way my fault, and you know it. As if I would consult with the likes of Moriarty. He's rather pathetic." John balks at the idea of Moriarty being called pathetic. He thinks that terrifying would be more apt, but he keeps his mouth shut. Irene leans her head on her hand, and gazes at Sherlock a bit dreamily. "Hmm. If Moriarty's got your coat now, and you're down here… How exactly are you going to get back Up?"

"By finding the coat, of course."

"And what about him?" she asks, nodding to John.

Sherlock's lips tighten. "I'll figure something out. I'm a genius, if you've forgotten."

"You could give it to him, once you find it," Irene says. "And then you could stay here."

"I've made my opinion on the matter rather clear in the past," Sherlock says. "Now, will you be coming with us or not?"

"Just give me a moment to gather my things."

As Irene vanishes around the back of the stall for a moment, Sherlock turns to the marquis. "I still say we don't need her," he says.

"You know perfectly well what she is capable of," the marquis replies. "We need her in the event that things don't go quite as planned."

"What she is- you know what _I_ am capable of, marquis, I think I can get us out of trouble easily enough."

"I know what you _can_ do, and also what you _will_ do. Those two categories have not traditionally matched up, and I don't want a reputation for getting my clients killed."

"Fine," Sherlock says, and he whirls around. The effect is slightly diminished without the coat. "I'm getting John out of here. I trust that you can deal with Miss Adler in the meantime," he says, over his shoulder.

"Of course," agrees the marquis. "I'll send you a message once I know of Moriarty's location. Until then, it's probably best if you and your friend lay low. Or high, as the case may be."

-

"So what the hell was all that?" John asks, conversationally, as he and Sherlock make their way back to Baker Street.

"A very big mistake, on your part," Sherlock says. "You have no idea what you've just done to yourself."

"What, gotten bloody confused? I think I'll recover."

Sherlock stops him, grabs his arms and spins him around and looks him straight in the eye. "I'm not quite sure yet, but I think I may have just ruined your life," Sherlock says levelly.

"Right, well, the least you could do in exchange is explain to me where the hell that was. And don't try to pawn me off, I know none of that was… I don't know, normal. Real. What should be real. I want to know everything, and I want to know how Moriarty's involved." John looks straight back at Sherlock, and he isn't the first to look away. John wonders if that's the first time he's managed to make Sherlock back down.

"It's probably too late anyway," Sherlock mutters. "Fine. I'll tell you." He tucks his hands into his pockets and stares at the sky, leaving John's arms feeling rather bare in his wake. Which is funny, because Sherlock's hands were quite cold.

"There are two Londons," Sherlock says, voice deep and slow, eyes still looking up at the stars. "The one that you hail from, the London Above. Where we are now. And the one we were just in. London Below."

"Alright," John says. He sees no reason not to believe it.

"London Below is- it's different from Above, as I'm sure you've been able to deduce for yourself. Things work differently there, and I've not the time to delve into all the minutiae. Suffice to say, you would not be happy there. I was not happy there, and that is why I came to live Above. But it isn't that simple. Moving between Above and Below is easy, physically. But London always knows where it is that you belong, and if you're in the wrong one, you'll know it. Falling Below is easy as breathing, but getting back Above is nearly impossible. There are a few ways to do it, and my coat was one."

"You said Irene made it," says John, almost a question.

Sherlock sighs, and lowers his head to look at John. "Yes. Unfortunately. She has great power, and she used it to make that coat. It allows one to travel between Above and Below freely, without consequence. That's why Moriarty wants it. He feels that Below is his true home, but she doesn't want him. Not hard to see why, is it?" He grins.

John snickers, despite himself. "Okay, okay, fine. Magic sewer land, crazy serial killer wants to live there, got it. What's going on with you and Irene, then?"

"Nothing. She is merely someone I used to know. We haven't spoken in years."

"What, that's all? You really expect me to believe that?"

Sherlock eyes him speculatively. "You think I'm lying to you?"

"You can't actually be that dense. She's in love with you." John wonders if Sherlock feels the same. It seems right, the two of them. They would fit. The idea rather makes John want to hit something, and he's not quite sure why. She would probably be a better partner at solving crimes than him. Maybe that's it. He'd hate to have this taken away from him.

Sherlock, for his part, laughs outright. "Hardly," he says. "She may play at it, but only to annoy me. Certainly, she wishes I would go back Below, but only so she would have someone to outsmart."

"Well, you are the expert on interpersonal relationships."

"I've known her for years. Decades. I think, in this matter, you can safely defer to my expertise."

They arrive back at the flat, and John shivers as he takes of his coat. Sherlock looks unaffected, and he's wearing at least two fewer layers than John was.

John grabs one of his hands, just to check. "Jesus, Sherlock, you're freezing," he says, startled. "Keep going like this and you're going to get frostbite."

Sherlock blinks at him. "I've suffered no ill effects thus far," he says.

"I'm serious, Sherlock. This can't be healthy," John says, and he reaches up his other hand to check Sherlock's pulse.

Sherlock snatches it out of the air before it can reach his neck, says, "I'm fine." His cheeks aren't even red. John's, on the other hand, are burning, because it's occurred to him that he's standing in the entrance to his flat, holding both of his flatmate's hands, with less than a foot of space between them.

The fact that it's not awkward in the slightest is really what bothers him. He should be uncomfortable, but he's just… not. He feels a bit warm, and also like his feet aren't anchored to the ground quite right.

To hell with this, then.

John leans up to kiss Sherlock, because he can't see any reason why he shouldn't.

Maybe Sherlock can, though, because he turns his head at the last moment, and the cold of Sherlock's cheek against his lips drags John back down to earth.

Sherlock drops his hands and steps back, but he brings his hand up to cup John's face. Paradoxically, like his body can't decide what to do with itself.

"I-" Sherlock, says, and then stops, eyes running across John's face like he's reading a book, or studying a particularly interesting specimen. John says nothing and watches him back, holding his breath. He thinks that Sherlock is too.

"John," Sherlock says, in exactly the same tone he had used back in the hospital. He lets his hand fall, and all but flies back down the stairs. His, "I'm going out!" is tossed over his shoulder just before the door slams.

Well. That could have gone better.

-

Sherlock still isn't back by morning. John is more than a little miffed. This is the second time in as many days that Sherlock has disappeared without a word. Not even a text.

Not quite, though. John finds a note lying on the kitchen floor, next to what appears to be a pile of rat droppings. Sherlock hasn't been doing any particularly unsanitary (by Sherlockian standards, anyway) experiments lately, and so John can only conclude that the two are related. Carrier rats? Well, that would certainly cross at least one thing off The List.

_Have not died. Don't bother looking for me, you'll only embarrass yourself._

_My most sincere apologies if I have offended you in any way. I can promise you, it was entirely unintentional._

_If you have any difficulties with Above, contact the marquis. He will help you._

_SH_

John hopes that the first part of that was intended to be taken as a challenge, because that's what he's decided to do. He stuffs the note into his pocket and heads out.

-

The problem with his Finding Sherlock ploy is that he keeps trying to hail a taxi, but even the empty ones pay him no mind. And people on the street keep running into him.

He digs out the note Sherlock left, and snorts. _Difficulties with Above._ Right. So this is what Sherlock was trying to warn him about.

Because Mike Stamford is apparently always about, John runs into him. Literally. Mike doesn't seem bothered, and simply continues on his way. He shouts, "Mike!" after him a few times, and either he's being ignored, Mike's hearing is going, or Sherlock was right. The prat.

John swings by the clinic, just to make sure. Sarah will probably be in, and right now, he needs someone as understanding as her to talk to. Anyone who could deal with dating Sherlock Holmes' flatmate, and manage to break up with him gracefully and without bitterness (John's still reeling a bit. He had expected yelling), can surely deal with this.

He walks by the receptionist with a smile and nod. She doesn't even look up from her sudoku.

Sarah calls, "Come in!" in clear voice when he knocks on her door. She smiles when she sees him. "Ah, hello."

Thank god. Maybe he isn't going crazy after all. "Sarah," he says, "God, am I ever glad to see you."

She blinks at him. "I'm sorry, can I help you?" she asks.

John's face falls. "You don't-of course not. No, I don't think you can." He walks out, leaving Sarah with a slightly puzzled look on her face, before she shrugs and goes back to her paperwork. After a few minutes, she's forgotten all about it.

When John come back round the flat, there's a 'For Rent' sign stuck on one of the windows, and the marquis is waiting for him on the front step.

"Come along," says de Carabas, not bothering with any formalities. "Can't have you wandering about, Sherlock will blame me if anything happens to you."

"Fantastic," John mutters under his breath, but he follows de Carabas. Predictably, they end up in the sewers again.

-

"There is a legend," Irene says. "About a woman who cheated Death himself, who lives on forever with more power than any one being should have. Isn't that funny? I did something even _he_ couldn't do." John has no doubts about who 'he' is.

"She's lying," the marquis says, bored.

"All I said was that there was a legend," Irene sighs. "Why does everyone always insist on spoiling my fun?"

"Legends are lies," the marquis points out.

"Everything comes out as lies in the end," Irene says. "That's why it's easier to just start the lying yourself. That way, it doesn't sneak up on you."

De Carabas grins. "A woman after my own heart," he agrees.

"Speaking of lies. You never did tell me where your name came from, marquis."

"A bit before your time, I'm afraid," he replies.

John blinks, and something slots in place in his head. "That's- It's Puss in Boots," he says.

The marquis de Carabas looks at him, as if just noticing that he's there. Even though he bloody brought him here. "Correct," he says. "Were Sherlock here, I'm sure he'd have some cutting remark about the state of your deductive abilities."

"As it is, you'll just have to make do with the marquis' condescension. They're comparable, I can assure you," Irene adds.

It reminds John of why he's here in the first place, making small talk with two strange people after being dragged down into the middle of a sewer. "Right. Where is Sherlock, then?"

"Run off to go confront Moriarty himself, I'd imagine," the marquis says.

"Well, what are we waiting for, then?" John asks.

"And what, exactly, are we in such a hurry to do?"

"The same thing as Sherlock, of course."

Irene laughs, her pale hand covering her mouth. "I can see why he likes you," she says.

Apparently not that much, John thinks but does not say. "You two are the experts. Where do you think Moriarty is?"

"Somewhere deeply stupid," de Carabas says. "Shepherd's Bush."

Irene scoffs. "He wants so badly to be part of Below, and he can't even bothered to learn where not to be?"

"I think perhaps it speaks more of his arrogance than ignorance. No matter. I'll lead the way."

John hasn't a clue what's so bad about Shepherd's Bush, but he's sure he'll only feel stupid if he asks, so he take their word for it. He's pretty sure they're not talking about the one he knows, anyway.

They walk for a while without speaking, until the marquis is a fair ten paces ahead of John and Irene.

"He loves you," Irene says, apropos of nothing.

"Excuse me?" says John.

"He can't stand being around me, as I'm sure you've noticed," she says. "But he's keeping me around for you."

"For me?" John asks. "How's that?"

"He asked the marquis for protection for you, right? The marquis did him one better. If anything happens to you, I can fix it. It's more that I really owe the marquis, but Sherlock knows I'd do it for him."

"Sherlock said you're not in love with him."

"What, you think I am?" Irene looks amused.

"Well, yeah," John says, feeling a bit sheepish.

"I'm sure I'll never find a better partner for a game, but love? I don't think so. I can only stand him for so long before we both start trying to scratch each other's eyes out."

"You were trying to get him to come back, though, weren't you?"

"It gets so dreadfully _boring_ down here without him," Irene says.

"You know," John says, "where I come from, that sort of thing would be called a mixed message."

Irene smiles. "That's rather the point, though."

"Sorry?"

"If no one can tell what you're really thinking, they can never guess what you'll do." She has the audacity to tap John on the nose, like he's a child. "That's power."

"I don't understand you," John sighs, resigned.

"No? Not to worry," she says. "Sherlock doesn't either. That's why I frustrate him so."

That's when John hears the marquis shouting, and before he can grab his gun out of his waistband, he's musing on how truly awful it is that the smell of chloroform has become familiar to him.

-

At least this time when he wakes up it's not facing a madman in a limo while wearing a vest with enough explosives to take down a building.

Then again, he's tied up with two other people, and he's not sure where he is except that it's not a limo. There's a wide circle cut into the dirt encompassing the whole area, and there are… _things_ lurking in the shadows beyond it.

And now instead of one madman, there're two. John is going to bloody well kill Sherlock when this is all over, because how many standoffs with Moriarty does he need? The two of them are talking, but John can't be bothered to pay attention to the words. His head is feeling a little fuzzy. Goddamn that chloroform.

"Terrible boring, isn't it?" Irene comments from beside him.

"Staggeringly," the marquis agrees.

"And John's the only one with a good view of the action. Simply unfair."

John rolls his eyes. "Don't worry, you're not missing much," he says, refocusing back on what's happening in front of him. His mind halts for a moment once he finally starts paying attention, because Moriarty is kissing Sherlock. Moriarty is _kissing_ him, the sick bastard, and John finds that he can't remember ever being so enraged.

He can't remember ever being so confused, either, when Sherlock grabs Moriarty's face with both hands and presses him back into the wall. Part of him is ignoring the specifics of the situation and just being hurt, that Sherlock is kissing Moriarty and wouldn't kiss John, but his more rational side is just disbelieving.

On the other hand, Moriarty's eyes are going wide and-is that _ice_ forming on his eyelashes?

At Irene's tinkling laugh, he blinks, and turns his head as much as he's able. "Oh, if only he'd live long enough to fully appreciate the stupidity of what he just did," she says. "It's almost a shame." The marquis simply shakes his head.

"Sorry, but would you mind explaining what in the world is going on?" John is getting tired of always having to ask that question.

"I think I'll leave that to Sherlock," she says. John turns back to him, and Moriarty is on the ground, pale and quite clearly dead. John thinks he should feel something other than thankful. Maybe sympathy, or horror, or anything, but he doesn't. He's found, with the cab driver and now with Moriarty, that when it comes to people that threaten Sherlock's life, he's incapable of regretting it when they die.

Sherlock, for his part, looks darkly pleased and also a bit disgusted. He's wiping his mouth off on a handkerchief produced from the pocket of his coat, which he's put back on, and John feels rather vindicated.

Irene slips a knife out of the sleeve of her dress and cuts the ropes binding her hands, and then does the same for John and the marquis. John blinks at her. "Did you have that the whole time?" he asks.

"That is a good question," she says easily. "But speaking of questions, haven't you got some to ask Sherlock?"

"Please," says de Carabas, brushing dirt from his clothing, "you call that manipulation? That wasn't even subtle."

John rolls his eyes, because it's not as if he's in any position to care. He takes what is his only option at this point, and walks across the dirt to where Sherlock is kneeling beside Moriarty, two fingers pressed against his neck. There's a healthy flush on Sherlock's cheeks that John's never seen there before. Moriarty's looking rather blue in the face himself.

"Need an expert opinion on that?" he asks, bending over to get a better look.

"Yes, Doctor, why don't you give me a cause of death?" Sherlock asks, eyes trained on what used to be Moriarty.

John looks the body over. "Looks like hypothermia to me," he says.

"Something like that," Sherlock agrees. He stands up in one fluid motion, and says, "Well. You can keep the flat, if you like."

"Sorry, what?" John asks, taken aback.

"The flat. I'm sure you've no interest in living with me any longer, and I'll be stuck down here for a while yet as it is."

"How's that? I though the entire point of this was so that you could stay Above. And wait a minute, who says I don't want to live with you anymore?"

"Yes, and in the process I dragged you down here with me. I'm sure you noticed. Humans crave contact with others, and thus, denial of that contact is glaringly obvious." He declines to answer the second part of John's question.

It's the way that Sherlock said 'humans' that seals it for John, as if Sherlock's method of dealing with Moriarty wasn't enough. He cocks his head to the side and lays two fingers against Sherlock's neck, just under his jaw. What would be his pulse point, if he had any evidence of one. This time, Sherlock doesn't stop him, but he still looks away. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and he takes a step back.

"Well, that settles it," Johns says. Sherlock clenches his jaw and tenses. "I knew someone as brilliant as you couldn't be human."

Sherlock's eyes are very wide as he turns his head and stares at John. John thinks, smugly, that he's finally managed to render him speechless. "A vampire, though," he mutters. "I mean, really."

"I'm not a _vampire_," Sherlock says, sounding affronted at the very idea of it.

"They're called Velvets," the marquis de Carabas says, from behind John. John tries very hard not to startle, which, judging by the quiet snicker he receives, he isn't entirely successful at. "They drink the life from their victims, for they have very little of their own. As a general rule, one tries to stay away from them."

"Which you've been doing a fantastic job of as of late," says Sherlock, eyes still locked with John's. "Do continue doing so and kindly piss off."

John hears his footsteps walking away, and he can hear snatches of conversation between the marquis and Irene, although he can't quite catch what's being said.

"Listen," says Sherlock. "I-what I said, the night we met. About being married to my work. That wasn't… quite the truth of it."

"I'm listening," John says. He really, really is.

"It's not that I'm averse to the idea, but romantic relationships truly aren't my area."

"I can't imagine why," John says, only half joking.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Don't be facetious. I've been told my personality can be… grating, to use one of the nicer adjectives, and occasionally when I kiss people they die. What about that is conducive to romantic relationships?"

"How occasionally, exactly?" Somewhere along the way, the space between John and Sherlock has shrunk to about six inches. This close, John has to tilt his head back to look Sherlock in the eye. He keeps himself from putting his hands against Sherlock's face, but only just.

Sherlock purses his lips, which John has no chance at all of failing to notice. "Of course," he says. "An adrenaline junkie through and through."

"If I'm addicted to anything, I suspect it's you," John says. He wrinkles his nose. "God, that's cheesy, isn't it."

"I wouldn't know," Sherlock says, his hand cupping John's cheek. It's warm, for once, and John refuses to think about why. "If I tell you to move away, it would probably be in your best interests to do so immediately."

John doesn't get much time to think about that, because Sherlock's kissing him and he's having trouble thinking about anything at all. It's soft, and light, and John feels a bit like he's going to float away out of sheer happiness. There's a word for that, but he can't quite think of it right now.

After a moment, Sherlock pulls away. "John," he says, with some urgency. "How do you feel?"

"Effervescent." That's the word he was looking for. Though that wasn't exactly what he meant to say. "I mean."

"Dizziness? Lightheadedness? Unusually cold?"

"The opposite, actually. Warm."

"Ah." Sherlock blinks. "That's normal, then?"

"It's fairly common, yes."

"I see. I was worried," Sherlock says. "That I'd-that I was hurting you."

"You're really not," John says. "It's voluntary, then? Whatever it is you do."

Sherlock, once again, won't meet John's eyes. "It would appear that way. But-this is altogether exquisitely unwise," he finishes. He looks rather lost.

"Since when has that been a problem for us?" Sherlock has no answer for that. "Thought so," John says, and he leans in to kiss Sherlock again. "If I feel like I'm about to pass out in a not good way, I'll let you know," he murmurs against his lips. "Promise."

"Not to interrupt you two," Irene calls, "but if you'll take a look at something that isn't each other, I think you'll decide to join me and the marquis in our hasty retreat."

They both look up, and John is inclined to agree with Irene. Whatever it is moving in the shadows is beginning to creep closer. Now that he's paying attention, John thinks he can smell blood.

"Right," Sherlock says.

"How exactly do we get out of here?" John asks.

Sherlock's smile is utterly dazzling. "We run, of course."

John doesn't know where he is or where he is going, but his leg doesn't hurt even a little as the four of them run from the circle like proverbial bats out of hell. His hand, entwined with Sherlock's, is perfectly steady.

They run for what feels like forever, and then they're out of the shadows and there are no more soundless footsteps following them. John's not sure whether the sewer they've found themselves in is an improvement over running from some sort of cosmic horror. God, does he ever loathe sewers.

The marquis de Carabas is quickly and efficiently re-tying his hair. After he's finished, he pats down several of his pockets, checking to make sure that who-knows-what is still there. "Well," he says, having finished these tasks. "You seem to have gotten what you wanted, Holmes."

"And you as well," Sherlock says. "Our business is done, you owe me nothing, etcetera, etcetera. Please feel free to leave. More than free. I know how you hate goodbyes."

The marquis smiles his white-toothed smile. "Lovely doing business with you. Miss Adler," he says, giving her a nod and a flourishing bow. John is graced with a raised eyebrow as the marquis walks past, which he can't even begin to try to interpret, but it's more acknowledgement than he expected.

Irene smiles a little to herself. "I'll be along in a moment," she calls to the marquis. "So, Sherlock."

Sherlock's face falls, and he sighs. "I suppose I'll be going back with you," he says, regretful.

"What?" John asks. "Excuse me? We just went over this."

Sherlock brushes his hair back distractedly. "Not exactly. We were about too, actually, before we were…distracted."

"What's the problem?" John demands. "We got the coat back. You're wearing it right now."

"Yes," Sherlock says. "We did. But the coat will only allow one of us to go back Above, and I will not- I'm not going to strand you down here." He shrugs the coat off and folds it neatly.

"Oh." John had almost forgotten. Forgotten taxis ignoring him and Mike not hearing him and Sarah not knowing him when he came in to see her.

Sherlock hands him the coat silently. John does not take it. "I don't care," he says. "I'm not leaving you, Sherlock."

"Don't be an idiot," Sherlock snaps. "You would not be happy here. I'm not even happy here. I will be irritable and even more hard to live with than usual, and I'm sure you'll grow to hate me. There's no reason for both of us to be stuck here. Take the coat, John."

"You're both idiots," Irene says. She snatches the coat from Sherlock. "Really, Sherlock, I thought you'd be better than this. Although I suppose you have been distracted."

Sherlock glares at her. "I'm sorry," he says snidely. "Did I ask for your help?"

"No, you didn't. Because you're an idiot. Now. I've just taken this coat from you, but that doesn't make it mine. Ownership is only transferred by the death of the previous owner, a gift willingly given, or-"

"Or by leaving a mark. I am aware."

"Of course you are." Irene flips up the collar of the coat and eyes the embroidered 'M' there. She shakes her head. "Showy," she says.

"What's your point?" Sherlock asks.

"My point is this," Irene says. She retrieves her knife from her sleeve, and cuts straight down the middle of the coat, slicing the 'M' in half as she goes. "There," she says. "It's useless as a coat now, but it'll still keep you anchored Above. And I've just marked it, so now it's mine."

Sherlock blinks at her, slowly. "I see," he says. Privately, John thinks that _this_ is why Sherlock can't stand Irene. This probably isn't the first time it's happened, and the fact that she one-upped him must be unbearable.

Irene holds one half of the coat out to each of them. "Cheers," she says. "I hope you two are very happy together."

John takes his half with a quiet thanks. Sherlock purses his lips for a moment, and then takes his as well. "Much obliged," he says. Which is probably the closest he will ever come to thanking anyone for anything.

"Are you really? Well, then, perhaps you could at least visit me," Irene says. "You never have, you know. It's been decades. I understand if you don't want to live Below, but you could still come by once in a while."

"I could say the exact same for you," Sherlock says, and the two of them stare at each other for at least a minute.

And John thinks he finally gets it. "Sherlock was never willing to leave this place completely," he says, slowly. "Otherwise, why would he have even bothered to get the coat back? He wanted to be able to come back here." John feels a great sense of satisfaction in also being able to say, "The both of you are complete and total idiots."

Irene looks dumbfounded. Sherlock throws his head back and laughs, and both he and John dissolve into helpless giggles.

"I see Sherlock has been a terrible influence on you," Irene says, shaking her head, and she walks back to the marquis, who is tapping his foot impatiently. "Expect me for tea next Sunday," she calls, as she and the marquis de Carabas make their way into the dark.

John Watson is alone with his flatmate in the middle of a sewer, with half of a coat in one hand. He is not nearly as upset about any of this as he should be. On the contrary, he's incredibly pleased. He takes Sherlock's hand with his free one, just because he can. "Please tell me we can get out and never step into a sewer ever again," he asks.

"I can only promise the first part, as there are far too many circumstances that might require us to spend time in a sewer," Sherlock says. "But I'll try my best."

John can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all, at the fact that this is what his life has become. And then he kisses Sherlock, just because he can, and he no longer cares even a little bit about where they are.


End file.
